Anything
by moriartysprincess
Summary: Johnlock reunion. Warning: some readers have found this story to be sad.


John Watson stood at the foot of the table in the kitchen 221B Baker Street. It was almost two years since he'd died – the other man – Sherlock Holmes. The table was still cluttered with microscopes, glass palettes, Petri dishes and God only knows what else. John ran his finger on one of the burn marks Sherlock had left in the table during one of his experiments. He remembered how eager Sherlock was to use John's laptop and change his tobacco ash entry on _'The Science of Deduction.' _A smile found its way on to John's face, only for a short moment, before devastation set back in, and his eyes began to water. The man managed to cough back his tears and correct his stance.

John hobbled over to the living area of the flat. His limp had come back, and though it was agony for him every day he refused to use his cane. Why should he? Sherlock had proved to him that he didn't need the cane within hours of meeting him, so why would he need it now? He glanced around the room. Everything still reminded him of the amazing man with whom he used to live. In the two years since it had happened, neither John nor Mrs Hudson had had the heart to move or get rid of anything belonging to Sherlock. The violin stood propped against the wall beneath the window. That was where he had played, composed and contemplated. John crouched just in front of the violin. He stroked down its neck with outstretched fingers. Its body was stained by the sun and the once smooth, varnished wood had become dry and cracked. Two of the strings had snapped and curled up at the top of the neck. On plucking one of its remaining strings, he found that the beautiful instrument was no longer in tune; that without Sherlock's presence, it could no longer function properly. A tear rolled down John's face. The man stood upright and cleared his throat. He had no idea where to go or what to do. Whenever he stayed in the flat for too long he felt like he was trapped in a prison of despair, as though memories of his lost partner were mocking him. But when he left the flat, he almost immediately wanted to return. To get back to where he could smell Sherlock and see all the things that Sherlock had loved. John sighed and before he could fall backwards into his armchair, he heard his phone alert play. Nobody had contacted John for weeks; they didn't know what to say any more. As he approached the phone it sounded again. Two text messages in one minute! The first message read:

_ I want to see you._

_ Come to Bart's._

The second read:

_Alone._

John assumed that the messages were from Molly Hooper. He'd become very close to Molly in the past two years. Both individuals shared a common admiration for the lost genius. In the first few months after Sherlock's death, John had spent almost every day in Bart's hospital, not speaking much except to go through his and Sherlock's final conversation, desperately trying to find a code or a message. Molly was always eager to help, after all she wanted Sherlock to be alive just as much as John did. It had been good for John to have someone to talk to. Obviously there was always Mrs Hudson, though talking about Sherlock tended to upset her too much to have a prolonged conversation about him, and LeStrade was never really the type for emotional heart-to-hearts. Molly understood John, and vice versa. They had kissed once or twice, but agreed that neither of them were ready for anything serious, and that they should remain friends.

As he took his coat from the end of the bannister, ready to pull it on and make his way to Bart's, a flash of blue caught his eye on slipping to the floor. John leaned down to pick it up and before it touched his hands he recognised what and whose it was. Sherlock's scarf.  
"No." He muttered to himself. "No. It's...It's impossible."

He was certain Sherlock had been buried with his scarf. John had searched the flat for it on numerous occasions, longing to smell Sherlock and remember him, but he could never find it. Plus, the scarf was warm, as though it had recently been worn.

"Mrs Hudson?"

No reply.

"Mrs Hudson!"

Still silence. John folded the scarf and pushed it into his pocket, before leaving through the front door, hailing a cab and taking a seat. He stared out of the window for the entire journey, his mind racing. _'How did that scarf get back to 221B? Who put it there? Why does Molly want to see me? Why is she working on a Tuesday? Molly never works on Tuesdays.' _The last thought stayed with him. Molly Hooper had not worked a Tuesday for a whole year. She didn't feel obligated to stay in every day of the week, as she knew Sherlock wouldn't be requesting to see any dead bodies or bringing someone in or asking if she had seen his riding crop anywhere. So what if these messages weren't from Molly?

The cab pulled up outside the hospital. The front of the hospital. This was where John had seen Sherlock jump. John felt his head spinning and his legs began to weaken. He hadn't been to this side of the hospital for months. It was daunting. He made his way to the hospital entrance, and as he struggled to climb the copious amount of stairs to Molly's lab he received another text message.

_'I'm on the roof.'_

The doctor's heart sank. That was somewhere he definitely had not been and somewhere he had no previous intentions of ever going. Yet, ever since Sherlock and John had met, John's curiosity and yearning for adventure had become two very strong aspects of his personality. He continued to climb the stairs, his pace quickening, the pain in his leg diminishing. At last he reached a red door, with a push to open bar. He listened for a voice or footsteps but could hear nothing. His hands gripped the bar on the door, and as he pushed he felt his heart begin to race.

At first he could see nothing. But on taking two or three steps forward, he was able to see a man. A tall man, in a long black coat and shined black shoes, clean pressed black trousers, a smart black suit jacket and a silken purple shirt. The man's hair was dark and curly, and his eyes were red from crying.  
"John, I'm..." He choked. "I'm so sorry."

"No." John's eyes began to stream with tears. "No you're dead, I saw you jump! From just over there!" Though his voice was angry, there was more disbelief than rage in his eyes. "So how, Sherlock, how are you standing in front of me?"

His voice softened as the two men stepped closer to each other.

"I can't stay here for long, John. Don't let me waste time explaining, please. I'm so sorry, John. If there was another way...any other way...if I could have...I didn't..."

Sherlock was lost for words. John found himself drawing closer to Sherlock.

"You bastard! I've been devastated, you know that? I haven't eaten properly; I haven't slept for two years! Mrs Hudson hardly speaks any more. But you're okay! You're not dead and you're in London!"

"John, I..."  
"No, Sherlock! Don't speak. I've considered suicide! I thought if it was that easy for you to leave me, then I could just leave everybody else. I had the gun to my head, Sherlock, and do you know who stopped me? Hm? Your brother, Mycroft Holmes. He's had me under surveillance. I was ready to die for not having you around, Sherlock. You've lied to me on a massive scale, so why..."

Both men were crying, sobbing now.

John continued. "Why do I love you?"

He fell to his knees with his head in his hands, his whole body shaking with each wave of tears. Sherlock knelt in front of him. He lifted John's head and placed his hands on either side of his face. His hands smelled like cigarettes. John laughed.

"You started smoking again. But then again, before today I thought it was impossible to come back from the dead, so why should it be 'impossible to maintain a smoking habit in London'?" he mimicked Sherlock's voice.  
The consulting detective kept hold of John's face and used his thumbs to wipe the tears from under the doctor's eyes. Sherlock rested his forehead onto John's and smiled.

"I've missed you so much, John. I wanted to come back so many times and see you but I just couldn't. I'm so sorry."

"For God's sake, Sherlock, stop apologising."

The two maintained perfect eye contact for thirty seconds before Sherlock took a firmer hold of John's face, pulled it towards his own and kissed him. John was shocked at first, though he did not pull away. He soon realised that he had wanted this to happen for a very long time, and he began to kiss back. The taller man stopped.

"I missed you so much, John Watson."

"You have no idea how happy I am to see you, Sherlock Holmes. I do have one question for you."

Sherlock smiled at John. "Anything."

"I won't ask you how you're alive or how you did it. I don't want to know that. But why the roof? Why here, why now?"

"It just felt…safe."

"You don't need to lie to me, I know why we're here."

"I can't come back to a normal life, John. The whole nation thinks I am dead. People have helped me to pull this off. They'd get into a lot of trouble, remember I was a fugitive. I'm going to have to leave you again, John. But I don't think I can do that. I can't live with the pain of knowing you're sitting in 221B waiting for me to come home and that I just can't be with you. So I'm going to ask you to do something for me...with me."

"You want me to jump with you."

Sherlock didn't react. How could he? He was asking the man he loved to commit suicide with him.

"For you, Sherlock? Anything."

John stepped towards his partner and took his hand. Sherlock's right hand raised to John's face. He stroked the short man's cheeks and touched his lips. John's fingers ran through Sherlock's hair.

"Wait." Insisted John.

He took the blue scarf from his pocket and tied it loosely around Sherlock's neck, the way he always remembered it being done.

"Perfect."

He raised onto his toes and softly kissed Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock took John's hand and together they walked to the ledge in silence.

"Three..." Sherlock began, before tears interrupted his speech.

"Two..." The doctor's grip of his friend's hand tightened.

"One."

The pair stepped from the ledge and didn't make a sound until the crash of their bodies onto the pavement.

Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson died hand-in-hand, and finally could be together, always.


End file.
